The Last Spooky Story

20251216

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 3” event.

“Thank you again for sharing your shelter.” The traveller leant back, clay mug of soup clasped loosely in their calloused hands, and examined us all from beneath sunken hooded eyes. “As thanks, I would like to tell a tale.”
“Ah, no thanks is necessary.” Mum said lightly, bouncing little Josh on her knee. “But we certainly won’t say no to a story! Right, children?”
Danielle and Gary nodded eagerly. And while Dad kept his gaze on the soup his attention was definitely on the visitor.
“Very well. What kind of story would you like?”
Danielle thought a touch quicker than her little brother, and reached for a way to show off how much more grown-up she was. “A spooky story!”
“A spooky story, eh?”
The question floated on the air, the traveller’s gaze roving over the rest of the audience.
Gary fidgeted and didn’t quite pout. Unwilling to protest and paint himself a scaredy-cat. So he nodded.
“Well… alright.” Mum said. “But speak up if it gets too scary.”
Dad sagely added “And make sure the story has a happy ending.”
“Tsh.” Danielle scoffed, tossing her head. “It’s not a proper spooky story then!”
“I’m sure you can have a spooky story with a happy ending.” Dad gave a sly wink. “And you don’t want me getting nightmares, do you, lambkin?”
“Ugh! Fine.” Danielle said with a forbearing sniff, as if she believed that he was the one who might get too scared if the monster was left roaming at the end. She turned her expectant eyes to the traveller, who was nodding slowly.
“Very well. An excellent choice.”
They leant forward, so the firelight threw their wrinkled weathered face into sharp relief, and began “One cold and lonely night between the Settling and Hungry Moons, a family of five sat in a snug cabin deep in the woods.”
“Like us!” Gary blurted excitedly.
“That’s the point.” Danielle grumbled, poking him. “Shush!”
The traveller’s lips curved into a wry smile. “Frost lay heavy on the ground, painting the road silver in the starlight. Perhaps that was why the air was soaked in silence. Or perhaps the denizens of the forest sensed something approaching.”
“A sudden wind whistled under the door.”
The children gasped as a chill breeze whipped at their ankles and stirred the fire, causing Dad to jump and swing the soup further out.
“It carried an eerie moan.”
Everyone froze, even little Josh, at the mournful, hungry wail which squirmed into their ears.
“I-I think that’s enough.” Mum said firmly, though her voice shook.
“It’s not a good idea to leave these stories unfinished.” The traveller murmured, their dark eyes bright in the firelight. “Loose ends tend to flap about and cause all sorts of… mischief.”
Without waiting they continued “Out over the ditch, where if you dug deep, deep down you would find a body long discarded, a restless soul wove itself a form of starlight and frozen dew and an undying yearning for what had been wrest from it. And it started walking.”
The children pulled together, Danielle hugging Gary tight, as the crunch crunch crunch of unsteady footsteps along the gravel path scratched at their ears.
Mum’s hand was white on the poker, her other arm cradling Josh close and trying to keep him soothed. His little face was screwed up but it was like he didn’t dare cry out.
Dad slowly, slowly leant over and gripped the axe resting against the woodpile. His gaze dancing between the door and the traveller, frantic as the shadows cast by the trembling fire.
“It could hear fire crackling, and voices raised in merriment, and hearts beating.”
Indeed, every member of the family felt that their heart should surely be audible to all, but were unable to raise their voice above a whimper. Unable even to cry out for the story to stop, please.
“Fingers like icicles scratched at the door.”
Bracing for it did not prevent horrified shudders at actually hearing the dreadful sound.
“A voice which had long forgotten life whispered…”
Did the words come from the traveller or the door? “Please. So cold. Let me in.”
The fire crackled. The soft scratches on the door continued. But the traveller said nothing. Simply watched them though hooded eyes.
“Please…” This time definitely from the door. “So cold…”
Dad slowly stood. Letting the axe slip from his fingers so he could hold the ladle steady as he shuffled to the door. Sliding the peep-panel aside he flinched back, paling further, at what he saw. But he put the scoop of steaming soup out and croaked “Here. This’ll warm you up.”
Silence. The fire merely whispered to itself. The scratching paused.
Then a slurp. A soft “ah” from a throat already melting. Dad looked away, teeth gritted, but forced himself to watch out of the corner of his eye until the twisted apparition had withered away to mist.
Only then did he look back at his family, and found them safe and staring at him - but the traveller’s chair held only an empty mug.
The voice tickled his ear. “Such fine hosts. And so wise, to ask for a happy ending.”
With a rasp like a chuckle the peep-slot slid itself shut.
Next morning they buried the mug, refilled with soup, in the ditch where the footprints started. An offering. And a plea.
Perhaps it was heard. Or perhaps there had never been a body there, nor a ghost. Regardless, while guests continued to be welcomed, that house never heard another spooky story as long as those four lived.

Prompt was “A wandering storyteller asks to share your fire for one night. In exchange, they’ll tell you any story you want to hear. Their stories have a habit of coming true.”